


Couldn't Wash The Echoes Out

by temporalDecay



Series: distrait shorts [14]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Eridan being shithive maggots crazy, Gen, Grimdark, Highblood Madness, Obsessive Behavior, Self-destructive Thought Patterns, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 06:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1540445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/temporalDecay/pseuds/temporalDecay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Eve of Revolution, Eridan doesn't break so much as shatter inside out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Couldn't Wash The Echoes Out

"Fuck this shit, I’m going home." 

Karkat’s expression plummets at the words. You wince, bracing yourself, not even bothering to try and rephrase that, because you know he’s not going to listen. 

"What do you mean you’re going home?” He snarls, all but vibrating into place. “Condesce will be here _tomorrow!_ ” 

You can tell he’s got a rant brewing, but you’re not in the mood for it. Fear makes you numb, in a shapeless, wordless way that makes Karkat’s self-important rant really not important at all. 

"And there’s fuckshit for me to do here," you snap, a little more snidely than you originally intended, although it’s true. "So I’m going home to finish up some stuff." 

"You have to be here," Karkat says, quiet and determined and maybe a little afraid. If you weren’t so terrified yourself, you might feel inclined to console him, but you’re not. "You _have_ to." 

"Crack of dusk, tomorrow," you promise, smile wane and transparent in how much you don’t really care, "you won’t even notice I’m gone." 

You know he won’t, either way. Karkat is actually important and has stuff to do. You’re… well. You. You’re angry and aimless and so scared. You don’t really know half of what they’re planning and still what you know is outrageous enough to make you nauseous. Which you suppose, makes it a good thing they don’t tell you anything and won’t really notice you gone. They don’t need you, so they probably care about your involvement in this as much as you care about anything, right now, which is nothing at all. 

You find your lusus by the shore outside, and smile despite it all as it lowers itself to take your weight with ease. It occurs to you, as you soar up into the sky, that you don’t have to go home. You could go anywhere you wanted, and not look back, and they probably wouldn’t go looking for you. 

But then you remember you don’t actually have anywhere to go, and head back to your hive with a strange, painful emotion stuck somewhere in your throat. 

  


* * *

  


You make it halfway to your hive, before you realize you don’t want to go there after all. You don’t want to go hide under old FLARP trinkets and dumb books no one cares about. Your hive is cold and empty and it looms above you like the herald of every single mistake you’ve ever done. You don’t want to go and sit in a corner and read some old, dusty bullshit treaty that no one cares about. You don’t want to go hide in the shadows and lick your wounds, because then you’d have to admit you have wounds in the first place, and you can’t. You _can’t_. 

You can’t go back to your hive, to the ghosts of all your past mistakes, and you can’t go back to the Palace and all the scrutiny waiting for you to screw up again. 

You’re a mile and a half above the ocean, holding onto your lusus out of habit, without any conscious thought, when it begins to dawn on you, how much you’ve really fucked up over the sweeps. What have you _done_ , really? What do you have to say for yourself? They need you because of your blood, to complete the perfect set of twelve that has become the most perfect propaganda tool for Feferi’s plan. You don’t do much, beyond what Karkat asks of you – and a few things he doesn’t, like arguing theology with cultist nutjobs so he won’t have to – but you still do your part. You just can’t do more because they won’t _let_ you. 

They need you so desperately and yet they’re so fucking stuck up and fixated on dumb mistakes you made sweeps ago that they won’t let you help. 

Your lusus comes to a gentle stop, floating easily in place and making a soft, inquisitive noise. 

You feel that ball of incredulous outrage slide down your throat half an inch, compressing into a helpless, angry laughter that brings tears to your eyes. 

And you’re so _scared_. 

Because what if it all fails? What if all the plans and the strategies and all the things they’re doing that don’t involve you, what if they all fail? What if Feferi dies and Condesce wins and then… 

What if Feferi does win, though? What if she changes? What if she takes the crown and becomes just like her predecessor? What if there’s no one left to tell her to knock it off and she gets too wrapped up in her silly ideals like she used to, and it fucks everyone over? 

What _if?_

You can’t go home, and you can’t go back. Your pan is boiling with thoughts and emotions you wouldn’t really be able to make sense of, on a good night, and today is most assuredly not a good night. You’re full of restless, boundless energy that needs an outlet. And the only outlet you know is violence, which has been denied to you for so long it feels like forever. Violence is not something Feferi approves of, and of course it’s something everyone else was quick to disdain at her command. Like violence isn’t the cornerstone of being a troll. Like it doesn’t thump in your veins right along with your blood, clouding your eyes and making your teeth ache. 

You ache, now, a deep, rumbling ache, echoing deep down your chest into the core of your being. You ache and the fear slowly bleeds into rage at your own helplessness. 

And then it occurs to you that you know well one way to purge the viciousness out of you, one thing that makes you feel alive and useful and powerful, owner of yourself despite of the madness roaring all around you. 

You tighten your grip on the reins and smile ferally as you press your thighs against your lusus’ sides, sharp and precise. 

It’s been four sweeps, since you last rode the edge of a storm and made the seas fear you like they should. 

But four sweeps are not nearly enough time to make you forget who you are, what runs in your veins. 

You laugh and you cry and you clench your hands until your knuckles are white, and head out to hunt something massive and dangerous that no one else would dare engage. 

All you’re good for is killing, after all, so you might as well be useful even if no one else will appreciate it. 

  


* * *

  


When you were four, you offered Feferi Peixes your life. 

You were young and stupid and didn’t know the meaning of the words you said, but you believed wholeheartedly in their weight. You told her you would be her strength, when hers faltered. You told her you would be her shelter, when the world and her fate made her wary. You told her your life was hers, bound to hers, sworn in salt and gold. That you would burn for her with moon pale, pearl pale, forever. 

And she took your words and your vows and your soul, and didn’t realize what it all meant, because when the time came, she gave them back, tattered and worn and not worth having. 

But when you were four, and the vows were fresh and sincere and unbroken, you killed your first kraken. 

In honor to the truth, it’d be more accurate to say it very nearly killed _you_. 

But you brought it down, eventually. And you held Feferi’s hand as you swam down with her, watching the titanic beast sink into the dark, until you heard the whispers and the pressure made your gills burn and bleed. But you did not let go of her hand, then. Even if you felt like dying. Even if you wanted to. You held on tight and descended to the cradle of the world, to the forest of limbs and maws and eyes, and felt your sanity bleed out your pores as you stared at her lusus and heard something deep and ancient awake in the back of your mind and start screeching in despair. It would be many, many nights before the screeching quieted down – or you learned to ignore it – but you never forgot. 

You remember. 

You remember the fight and the adrenaline and the grip of Feferi’s fingers around your wrist, tugging you down into the Dark, humming along its melody and promising it’d be alright. 

You’re not a child anymore. You’re not four and clumsy and stupid. You’re ten and hardened and _wise_. You kill the kraken with ease that makes your gills burn at your sides, a feral satisfaction as you remember what you’re capable of. And then you sit on your lusus and watch the beast fall, slowly sinking under the waves, and take stock of how much the world and Feferi have wronged you. You! Who gave up his everything for her, who slaved away to please her, who entertained her silliness and her childishness and loved her despite it all. 

But it didn’t really matter, did it? It didn’t mean a thing. 

They’ve still left you behind, set you aside, as if you’d get in their way. Maybe you would have, before. Maybe you were an obstacle to be overcome. But you swore on salt and gold, coral pale, crimson pale. You _swore_. And she never really cared. 

The last of the kraken disappears under the surf, white foam swinging on the waves as the tide regains its rhythm again. 

The obvious solution, you think, terrified and wounded and desolate, is to make her care. To make her remember. Words won’t mean a thing to her, anymore. Words won’t make her change her mind. But you refuse to believe she could forsake you so thoroughly that nothing could make her admit the error of her ways. What you need is something more than words. Something stronger. Something drastic. 

A grand, sweeping gesture on the eve of the great battle, yes. 

Something to put the whispers to rest, for once and for all, something to make it quite clear that you’re still hers, will always be hers. That she can’t throw you away because no one else will be anywhere near as faithful as you are. 

You lick your lips and tilt your body forward, nudging your lusus towards the surface of the water. You’ll give her grand. You’ll give her something she will never be able to doubt, something that’ll make her stop and look and realize what’s been standing there all this time. It will hurt and it will cost you, but sacrifices are only worth the prize they earn, and after this… after this, you’re quite certain Feferi will take you back, will look at you for who you are, not for who she’s been told you are. 

She will remember knowing you better than she knew herself. 

She _has_ to. 

You know what you must do, to make sure she has no choice. 

  


* * *

  


Your lusus goes quietly, in the end. 

You spent the entire descent fingering the crosshairs and wondering if you’d ever be done steeling yourself to do this, but instead, your lusus goes quiet as the pressure mounts. It tries to pull back, twice, and twice you press on, nudging it forward. And it goes, because it loves you. Because it knows what’s coming. 

You feel it dying below you, going limp just as the pressure becomes unbearable and blood starts seeping out your gills, clouding the water. A sob claws its way up your throat but you ignore it. You float back enough to let the body sink at its own pace, and then you see it. Her. 

Gl'bgolyb. 

Still a forest of limbs and maws and eyes, still humming a hymn of madness that makes your soul wither inside you and makes your pan feel like it will burst under the strain. A large tentacle reaches out to claim the kraken, curling around the beast with terrifying ease before pulling it towards the closest mouth. You sway in place, trying to resist the pull of the current the movement creates, feeling small and insignificant and utterly and completely worthless. A second tentacle approaches, much smaller than the other one. 

And you remember that Feferi is not here now, to shield you, to hum along the notes of her lusus’ Song and make her promise not to harm you. You see the limb approaching and wonder if you’ve made a mistake, if you’re going to die as well. You have the Crosshairs in your hands still, but what could they do, against Gl'bgolyb? 

The tentacle stops short of you, swinging about almost questioningly, before darting forward and capturing your lusus’ carcass in its grip. You watch her swallow it whole and the scream echoes in your pan but never reaches your mouth. You don’t know if the violet tainting the water around you is blood or tears, but it doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter_. 

You’ve made your choice, and you know when you tell Feferi, she will know better than to doubt you. And then… and then maybe Karkat will follow her lead, maybe Karkat will stop looking at you with that mercurial, hopeless anger of his that has no purpose and no outlet. Maybe then Karkat will smile at you and let it reach his eyes, will engage you instead of indulge you. 

Maybe then it’ll all be alright. 

The Song changes around you, and you gasp as you feel a tendril reach out to touch you. You flinch under it, expecting pain, but it brushes your hair back, petting almost comfortingly. You don’t understand Gl'bgolyb, that is a privilege exclusive to those of Imperial blood. To you her Song is gibberish that makes your ear clots bleed, but even so, you can’t help but find her very, very beautiful, in a strange, deranged way that brings more tears to your eyes. 

You think you might be going a little bit insane, when you start grasping errant notes in the Song. 

You don’t really care. 

Your lusus is dead and an Empress will raise tomorrow and it’s all an ugly, ugly mess and you deserved _better_. 

You cry in the dark, at the mercy of something majestically monstrous, half dead from the pressure and the pain and the salt burning its way through your gills. You cry because your lusus is gone, and you will never make it back to the Palace in time, now, swimming on your own. You cry because Karkat will be upset. You cry because Feferi doesn’t _care_. 

You cry because you’re ten and you did not think this through. 

  


* * *

  


There is a city, at the bottom of the deepest chasm in the ocean floor. There is no record of where it came from or who built it, but you know it’s there, you have seen it, hidden beneath the bulk and weight of Gl'bgolyb’s limbs. A city of marble and quartz, carved by troll hands but stolen away into depths no troll could have possibly ever been, never mind enough of them to build such a thing. 

And in that city, ghosts roam free, memories anchored into the very fabric of reality, given voices and form by the Song permeating every inch of the city. 

Feferi called it home, once. So did every child that ever bore Imperial blood. 

A city of ghosts, guarded by Gl'bgolyb, lost in the bottom of the sea, untouchable and safe. You know the rules, because you swore to Feferi and she told you, back when she still believed you, when she hadn’t let herself be poisoned about you, of the Ghost Citadel. You know those of Imperial blood never truly die, are never truly gone. Magic is bullshit, you know, but Gl'bgolyb is not. And neither is her Song. 

Her Song beats like a pulse in the city below, enveloping in a strange fog you cannot cross. Because you’re not worthy, because you’re alive, because only ghosts and ghosts-to-be are allowed to walk down the sinuous roads and admire the crooked hives that change with the same ease as the tides. 

When you are done breaking apart, when the burning in your gills has dulled into a tolerable throb, when the Song has stopped making you scared, you dare sink lower still, through the maze of limbs, aware of every eye watching you as you go, until you reach the border of that fog. You will not reach the Palace in time, now, not without your lusus. You’re not sure you want to, truth be told, but you want to know who wins. You want to know. 

Gl'bgolyb watches you and pets you and murmurs incomprehensible tunes straight into your pan, Flow and Melody and Life bearing down your soul and making you wonder why you ever tried in the first place. 

You float there for a small eternity, feeling the edges of your being erode away as you watch the figures come and go through the streets below, unaware and uncaring of your presence. This is what you are, you think, a ghost, a thing to be ignored and discarded and rejected. This is what they’ve _made_ you into. This is all you have left. 

But it should be enough, you think, if Feferi survives, to prove your point. 

It must be enough. 

  


* * *

  


You reach the palace three days late, exhausted and worn and ready to confess all your sins. You did not expect to come back so easily, not without your lusus to keep you out of the way from the worst dangers of the sea. But perhaps Gl'bgolyb’s touch lingers on you, because you were largely untroubled by beasts and monsters you know all too well. You walk out of the waves into the shore by the palace, bone-deep tired and with the fear burnt out clear from your system. 

You think you might still be a little mad, all things considered, but that doesn’t matter. 

You need to find Feferi, you need to tell her what you’ve done. You need to show her what she means to you, the monument of your faith. You need to tell her how the bands around your chest lessened, when it was Condesce and not her, who appeared in the depths of the city, cursed to roam its streets forever. How much clarity it gave you, to stand there before her lusus, meek and defenseless, and how much it made you understand that is your place, at her side. 

You have so much to tell her, and only in telling her will you find closure. 

You _have_ to tell her. 

“You ran away,” Karkat whispers, when he sees you, mouth set in a hard, unforgiving line but eyes betraying the soft, vulnerable hurt that lingers in him. “You promised me, and _you ran away_.” 

You give Karkat a look of sheer, unabashed pity, because he’s small and insignificant and he doesn’t know it. Everyone is. They just don’t realize it. But you do and you have, because you were brave and desperate and stood at the edge of the chasm and allowed the chasm to stare back. Because even now, the Song lingers. 

“I had things to do,” you say, because this is not a secret you need to tell Karkat, and he wouldn’t understand, anyway, the beauty of the depths and the monstrous things you’ve pledged your loyalty to. “Where’s Fef?” 

“The Empress is busy,” Karkat snaps, eyes narrowing with suspicion. 

You will not miss seeing that expression on his face, but you’re sure he won’t be using it again, on you, once you talk with Feferi. Once you make things right. 

“This is important,” you go on, calm and measured and composed, because you would wait eternity to say your piece. “It can’t wait.” 

“It can and it—“ Karkat trails off as you walk away, stride long and back tilted back, proud. “Eridan!” 

You’ve made your choice. You just need to make Feferi realize she doesn’t get to make hers. You heard the Song. You know the truth. Everything else is irrelevant. Everything else is worthless. In the back of your pan, though, just the tiniest, quietest whispers complains that Karkat doesn’t get to know your secrets. Because you really do love Karkat a lot, and you hate keeping secrets from him. You don’t think you’ve ever kept one, before. 

But this is yours, and Feferi’s, and no one else’s. 

  


* * *

  


“I need to tell you something,” you say, blunt and upfront, staring at her through wide eyes. 

She doesn’t look like an Empress, not quite. Not yet. But it makes sense she doesn’t. She couldn’t become a true Empress without you. You had to come in and deliver your news and then set everything right. Feferi stares at you warily, circles around her eyes and bandages all over the skin not covered by her clothes. Condesce put up a good fight, you imagine. It’s only proper. 

“Now it’s not the best time,” she says, swallowing hard. “I have a speech to finish.” 

“This is important,” you insist, stepping further into the block – might as well be your block too, like it used to be, when you were children and shared everything – and not stopping until you’re but a feet away from her. “There’s something you should know.” 

“Eridan,” she begins, but you don’t let her finish her complaint, because of course she’s complaining, she doesn’t know _yet_. “I don’t really think—“ 

“You don’t have to think.” You smile. “You don’t have to do or say anything. You just have to listen.” 

“I’m tired and this speech is driving me nuts,” Feferi retorts, gathering some aplomb, and you’re struck by the notion that she’s gorgeous like this, budding power and unrealized potential, a gleaming hope for trollkind as a whole. And you belong to her. And as soon as you’re done, she will belong to you, as well. And you will belong to each other, and everything will be as it was meant to be, from the beginning. “I don’t have the time for this.” 

“It’s just a dumb speech,” you snort, shaking your head, because it's hilarious how much she doesn't get it, and she will beat herself up for it, once she does. Because you know her, she always does when she realizes she’s made a mistake. “Who cares, Fef.” 

Feferi doesn’t echo your laughter, doesn’t join in on the joke. Maybe she doesn’t understand it? You feel so bad for her. There are so many things she doesn’t understand yet, and it makes you hurt for her, how much she needs you. 

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, voice icy cold like salty currents wrapped around Gl'bgolyb, eyes narrowed and expression grim. “And get out.” 

You scowl. 

“But you still haven’t heard what I have to say,” you whine, resisting the urge to stomp your foot. You need to be strong and serene, to keep it together for her when she’s so obviously out of it. “It’s important.” 

“I have a speech to rehearse,” she hisses, standing up to try and cower you, but you’re all grown up, now, you’re not a kid she can bully away. You’re hers, of course, and she only needs to ask, for you to obey. But right now she’s being stubborn and obedience can wait until you’ve set her straight. “I have—“ 

“Fuck your dumb speech,” you snarl, losing your patience because she keeps going back to I-I-I, and what about _you_? When is she going to realize that you matter too? “You’ve probably fucked it up again, calling highbloods out on tradition and law like you know what you’re talking about.” You let out a sharp breath and slow down a little, because yes, you’re angry and you should be, but you’re trying to _fix_ things. You _are_ going to fix things. You just need Feferi to shut the fuck up and listen and realize she’s been looking at this all wrong from the start. “Listen—“ 

“Get _out_!” 

You don’t go. You refuse to budge, even when she shoves you. You feel your gills bleeding under your clothes, abused and bruised from your little errand into the depths. The pain makes you snarl and shove back, even though you shouldn’t, even though she’s the Empress, even though you _love_ her. You watch her stumble back and immediately reach out to grab her arms and keep her steady. Feferi pulls back with a snarl, which you match with one of your own. 

“Fine!” You say, after a long moment. “Read me your fucking speech first. But I’m not going anywhere. You need to listen to me.” 

“I need you to leave,” Feferi retorts, unkindly, but you will forgive her, eventually. You will forgive anything, because you’re hers and she’ll be yours and it’ll all be fine. “That was an _order_.” 

“This is important!” You throw your hands into the air, rolling your eyes at her. “The sooner we get it done, the sooner it’ll be alright. Just read the fucking thing.” 

Maybe it’s your tone, maybe it’s the inflection of the words. Either way, Feferi looks at you with something almost like fear for a moment, and then she grabs the scroll and rushes through it as if to speed up the process as much as possible. 

Through the fog of impatience, her words leak in, poisoning your hard earned inner peace with their sheer stupidity. 

“Are you insane?” You demand, interrupting her mid-sentence and reaching out to tear the scroll from her hands, because she’s keeping you from delivering the truth for this _bullshit_. And if you didn’t love her like you do, you might make your displeasure known. “Or are you just suicidal? No highblood will follow you if you say that.” You take a deep breath when she cowers, and you realize you’ve torn the scroll in your hands. You rub your face with your hands, trying to force the peaceful calm back into it. “Listen, Fef—“ 

“Don’t call me that!” 

“ _Listen_ —“ 

You’re holding her arm and you don’t remember when you grabbed it in the first place. You’re holding her arm and shaking her in place, because you’re trying to tell her something, and she won’t listen. 

And then you’re on the floor, and Terezi Pyrope is on you, and Karkat is holding Feferi, and _they’re getting in the way_ , again. You snarl in contempt, angry and vicious because you have something to say. You have to fix this mess and set them all straight and sort it all out. You can’t let them poison Feferi anymore, you can’t let them keep you two apart. 

The world goes dark, before you can articulate your wrath, courtesy of Pyrope’s cane smashing into your skull. The pain is such an insignificant blip in your radar by now that you laugh at the hit, and pass out mid snort. 

  


* * *

  


You bide your time, inside your cell. 

You bide your time and wait, sometimes patiently, sometimes not, because you have a thing to say, a promise to renew, vows to invoke. 

You have the key to sorting out this mess, you need only but share it. 

They don’t scare you, not really. You came out the other side of fear determined to never cower again. Determined to win. 

So you sit in your tiny cell and stare at the too bright walls under the too bright light and refuse to yield. 

Feferi will not let them hurt you. This whole charade is for the sake of pacifying Pyrope’s need to be melodramatic, but nothing will come of it. Feferi will not let them. 

Feferi will not stand by and let them wrong you, not like this, not even if she’s been poisoned and confused and lost. 

You lean your back on the wall and close your eyes and think, _it’s going to be alright_. 

In the back of your pan, something shrieks in a mimicry of the Song, reassuring. 

  


* * *

  


_I run to the river and dive straight in_  
 _I pray that the water will drown out the din_  
 _But as the water fills my mouth_  
 _It couldn't wash the echoes out_  
 _But as the water fills my mouth_  
 _It couldn't wash the echoes out_  
  
 _I swallow the sound and it swallows me whole_  
 _Till there's nothing left inside my soul_  
 _As empty as that beating drum_  
 _But the sound has just begun_  
  
 _As I move my feet towards your body_  
 _I can hear this beat it fills my head up_  
 _And gets louder and louder_  
 _It fills my head up and gets louder and louder_  
  
 _There's a drumming noise inside my head_  
 _That starts when you're around_  
 _I swear that you could hear it_  
 _It makes such an all mighty sound_

Florence + The Machine, " _The Drumming Song_ ". 

  


* * *

  


It will take you decades to realize the shrieking is your conscience trying in vain to hold onto your sanity, but by then it will not make any difference at all. 


End file.
